Thoughts on the boob vise

As I've mentioned before, my mom has breast cancer which had metastasized to her bones. Thanks to the great doctors and staff at St. Mary's Cancer Center, she is improving. For that I am very thankful.

My humble opinion is that cancer sucks and we should all be doing what we reasonably can to prevent it and/or detect it early.

For women that means yearly pap smears combined with, after age 40, the boob vise.

But now, researchers have said that women needn't have their breasts flattened in the mammogram torture machine until their 50th birthday and that self-exams are not that helpful.

I have mixed emotions about these findings.

First, since I have cancer in my family, I'm not one that can be spared the yearly mammogram until I'm 50. And as much as I want any cancer I might have to be detected early, the idea of having my womanly bits ironed flat like a linen skirt doesn't appeal to me much.

Is this really the best we can do? Clamping breasts into machines to look for cancer?

I bet if that's the way testicular cancer was detected, they'd be a whole poop-pot full of doctors and researchers looking for new testing methods.

Why girl bands are awesome: Reason 386

Girl bands (or in our case, "mostly all-girl" or "all-girl fronted") are awesome because we care so deeply for one another.

Yesterday I woke up with an issue. My head was not correctly attach to my neck. It was listing to the right, painfully.

I've had this before. Been to the doctors, chiropractors, acupuncturists, physical therapists and ultimately ended up at the neurosurgeon who told me I've got some arthritis in my neck.

He suggestion was to go about my enjoying my life as usual.

Well, that was helpful. Because literally having my head on crooked was great and no one ever made fun of me.

Anyway, I started doing yoga and exercising regularly and I haven't had much problem with it since.

Until yesterday.

I saw Laurena yesterday morning and complained about my neck.

Her response?

"Oh no, not your guitar playing neck!"

Husband of the year

I know, I know, I've expounded on my husband's virtues before. But this weekend's events prove without a doubt that my husband should be 2009's Husband of the Year (and honestly, having to deal with me and all my issues, the dude should be Husband of the Millennium).

Bill's bromance, Cy, was having a housewarming fest Saturday night (for those not in the know, a housewarming for a 20-something bachelor is very similar to a frat party only without all the lame-ass frat dudes ... so I guess it's not like a frat party at all, but a regular party just without furniture or some PMSing wife making everyone go home).

About a hour before we were to leave, we noticed a catastrophic failure of the sump pump in our basement.

In. The. Basement. The basement that is now our bedroom.

Y'all know what the sump pump is and does right? There's a vat into which the downstairs sink, washer, shower and toilet drain. Then when it gets to a certain level, a trigger turns on the pump and pumps all the shitty water up to the sewer line for the rest of the house.

The pump is in the vat of shit, toilet paper and bum water.

If I were left to my own devices, I'da gotten on the telephone wildly dialing numbers until I could hire some fixer person to come deal with the issue.

Bill, being a man of fixing tendencies, opened the shit vat and extricated the pump while I stood in the bedroom watching TV and hoping to not have to help.

But I did need to help.

Bill stood there with this giant pump attached to a PVC pipe breaking his back asking me to cover the new carpet and help him wrap the thing in plastic bags.

My response, "Wait, I have to change my shirt and put up my hair."

Because I'm helpful. Needless to say, Bill pulled a muscle in his back.

But I did help. And I am scarred from it.

All in all, Bill got the pump out, unclogged and back in and I only cried a little once.

After the whole poopfest was over, he showered, scrubbing himself with acid and we went to the party.

It got drunk out that night and we slobbered home around 3 a.m.

Sunday morning, Bill and I were feeling less than chipper made less so by the fact that the sump pump was again not working.

So after a quick run to McDonalds for hangover breakfast, Bill once again breached the seal of poopland and fixed the pump again.

This time, I laid on the sofa too hungover to even pretend to help.

When I finally ventured downstairs (after watching the newest episode of Top Chef and fighting off nausea and a migraine). The pump was fixed, the bathroom was clean and the husband laid panty-clad on the bed ... and he wasn't even pissed that I didn't help him.

See? Husband of the Year.

Confessions of a budding addict

Hi, my name is Robin and I'm an addict.

My husband and I thought that together we'd just use a little. You know, to help us out, to be more productive. But now it's all he wants to do and I'm just about as bad.

I can go for lengths of time without my addiction and I can stop whenever I want to.

But I don't want to.

And I'm starting to feel the effects, like when I'm driving or watching TV ... I'm distracted. Always glancing around to see if I can get a quick fix.

I can't seem to help myself. I've been googling ways to use more and faster.

It's time that I come clean.

My name is Robin and I'm addicted to my Blackberry.

Yes, I even sicken myself.

Smarter than a speeding bullet

I'm sure I've mentioned before that Margaret likes old movies. Unfortunately, by "old" I mean movies from the ’70s and ’80s — those prehistoric times when I was young.

There's something about those movies that appeals to her. I think it's because they aren't really scary and tend to be a bit silly — and that works just fine for her.

Last night we finished watching the 1978 Superman movie with Christopher Reeve. And I have to admit that after not having seen it in 30 years, I really enjoyed it (even if I did not quite understand the flying part — I mean, what exactly propels him?) and so did Mar ... for the most part.

At the moment when Superman pulls Lois Lane from her car which had fallen into the San Andreas Fault and discovers her dead, Margaret utters matter-of-factly, "Doesn't he know CPR?"

Yes, he could fly so fast as to turn the planet backward, rewinding time. But he doesn't know basic life-saving skills such as CPR? Huh. Some Superman.

Vibrating mascara ... 'the hell?

So I mentioned briefly last time that I was in the market for mascara.

I don't know if you've been shopping for mascara lately, but your typical, drug-store variety costs about $8 a tube.

Eight bucks.

That's two, happy-hour beers.

So I don't like to go throwing around my hard earned 8 bucks all willy nilly. As I mentioned, I tried to get Bill to help me, but he was on the hunt for a Mississippi mudflap and was no help.

Well, I should say that his response was, "Eight dollars? Just pick a cheap one so we can go."

He's so helpful.

I looked at all the applicators, then all the colors, then started to get anxious because what if I bought one and hated it. I'd have to do this all over again.

Just as I was about to buy one of each, I noticed this:



Mascara with a vibrating, pulsating applicator.

Um, I hate to sound daft, but I don't get it.

Why would someone want their applicator to vibrate?

I have enough trouble trying to get the mascara on my lashes and out of my eye without having the thing tremble on its own.

And how could a pulsing applicator make the whole process easier? Would it shake the goop on my lashes?

I think this whole "vibrating applicator" is just a beard and that it's not intended to be used for mascara application at all.

I'm just sayin'. We could see a lot more happy women with messy mascara.

The one that got away

Last night I needed a couple of things from the drug store and recruited Bill to go along.

This is a good thing and a bad thing.

It's good because he's great company and keeps me entertained — even if it's only for a quick trip to the store.

It's bad because what should have been a 5-minute trip down two aisles and out, turned into an unsuccessful "hunting" trip.

Why? Because we just can't act right — even after 10 years of marriage.

I needed conditioner and mascara. We started in front of the Biolage products where I began expounding on the virtues of Biolage's Smoothing Conditioner.

Seriously people, if you have have frizzy, unruly hair, go right now (I'll wait) and buy yourself some Biolage Smoothing Shampoo and Conditioner. You'll thank me for it.

While I was claiming that I'd have to shave my head if they ever stopped making Smoothing Conditioner, Bill was kicking my shoe and glancing repeatedly over my shoulder. Finally I realized he wasn't trying to get me to shut up, instead he was trying to direct my attention to the next aisle.

And what did I see? A fem-mullet of colossal proportions.

Bill was completely entranced.

I tried to get him to help me pick out a mascara, but he couldn't take his eyes off the Kentucky waterfall. In desperation, I decided to just believe Drew Barrymore and selected the mascara promising bold lashes.

But we weren't done.

No. Bill was insistent that we capture of photo of this hockey hair in the wild. So we started stalking this poor woman around the store. At one point, I studied the Chia Pet display while Bill faked a phone conversation so he could take a picture with his Blackberry.

I was finding it harder and harder to maintain a normal composure and we were running out of things to "shop" for so we gave up and headed to the cash register.

And guess who walked up behind us?

I heard Bill's Blackberry's camera snap a picture as I was signing the debit receipt.

As we walked out of the door, I asked him half giggling, "Did you get it?"

Bill looked down at the screen and frowned, "Naw, I just got a picture of a bunch of candy."

I bet this is how Big Foot hunters feel.